Second Horseman Out of Eden m-7

by George C. Chesbro

  "Okay," Garth said in the same even tone. "I didn't mean to offend you."

  "Well, you did offend me! And let me tell you-!"

  McCloskey was interrupted by the sudden ringing of the phone on his desk. He grunted with disgust, snatched up the receiver. "Yeah, what is it?" He listened, and the blood slowly drained from his face, making him look even more exhausted and haggard. "What the fuck?! No, leave everything as it is. I'll be right there." He hung up the phone, rose and snatched his overcoat off a rack in the corner, headed out the door. "You two come with me!" he shouted over his shoulder.

  Garth and I looked at each other, then rose and followed after McCloskey. "I wonder what that was all about?" I said as we walked through the squad room, ignoring the heads that turned in our direction.

  "I assume we'll find out soon enough," Garth replied in a low voice. "Incidentally, all that talk about athletes jogged my memory; I remember where I've seen that big, ugly chauffeur before."

  I abruptly stopped, looked at my brother. "Where?"

  "On a football field. It was Tanker Thompson."

  "Tanker Thompson? Are you kidding me? I thought he was in prison."

  Garth slowly shook his head. "He's out now, working for Nuvironment."

  Thomas "Tanker" Thompson, born-again Christian or not, was not a man I wanted at my back, whether in a car or on foot. When he'd played defensive tackle for one of the now-defunct U.S.F.L. football teams, he'd weighed upwards of three hundred pounds, and had been quick as a cat. His problem had been that he was a virulent racist; considering the number of pro football players who are black, he'd apparently never had a problem getting himself worked up for game day. One day he'd gotten himself a little too emotionally worked up. After a missed tackle and an exchange of words with a black running back from another team, Thompson had chopped the man in the larynx with the side of his hand. Despite an emergency tracheotomy performed on the field, the other man had died two days later. Tanker Thompson had been convicted of aggravated assault, and had become the first athlete in the United States to go to prison on a sports-related charge. A while back, in a "where they are now" column in some magazine, I'd read that he'd undergone a "spiritual conversion" while in prison, and was devoting all his time to religious studies. Obviously, he had been let out on parole, and was now on the payroll of Nuvironment.

  It figured.

  Still pondering the unpleasant implications of having a murderous behemoth of an ex-football player assigned to watch over us, I followed Garth out of the station house into a cold, gray Christmas dawn that seemed ominously still and foreboding. I smelled snow; lots of it.

  Malachy McCloskey, still pale-faced and looking very agitated, was standing at the curb, nervously tapping his palm on the roof of a squad car that had its motor running. "Let's go, you two!" he shouted when he saw us, then hurried around to the other side of the car and got in behind the wheel.

  "Where are we going, Lieutenant?" I asked as Garth and I got in the back.

  McCloskey slammed his foot down on the accelerator, and Garth and I were pressed back in our seats as the car sped away from the curb. He switched on the flashing red light atop the car, but not the siren. "Central Park," the gray-haired man said tersely as he cut between two cabs.

  "And I'll bet we're not going to a sunrise service."

  "Hardly," McCloskey replied, and grunted. "I think someone's left you two a Christmas present, and it wasn't Santa Claus."

  9

  It wasn't a present, but a message.

  The good Reverend William Kenecky certainly was no longer going to be abusing Vicky Brown-or anyone else, for that matter. Somebody had crucified the self-styled "scourge of the Lord," nailed him upside down and naked, with his skinny arms and legs grotesquely splayed, to the trunk of a massive, gnarled oak tree about twenty-five yards off a narrow, twisting path in the heavily wooded section of Central Park known as the Ramble, a notorious trysting place for homosexuals. He was missing his genitals, which had been cut off-or out; he looked like he'd been cored like an apple, and I hoped he'd been dead when it had been done to him. He was a sight, and if I hadn't so detested this skinny, spiritually bent creature that had walked like a man, I'd have vomited. I was glad I hadn't eaten in a while. I glanced at Garth to see how he was reacting to this less than cheery Christmas morning sight; my brother didn't look sick, only thoughtful.

  We were standing just behind the police lines-strips of yellow tape that were flapping in a stiff, cold breeze from the northwest. On the other side of the tape, uniformed police officers, detectives, police photographers, and technicians from the coroner's office were going about their grisly business. Measurements were made as strobe lights flashed; the scene somehow reminded me of one of Kenecky's shows on television. Twenty yards behind us, crowded together on the narrow trail, a phalanx of reporters and television camera crews were being held at bay by a second phalanx of police officers.

  Reverend William Kenecky's last picture show, I thought.

  Shit.

  McCloskey, his grizzled, scarred face once again wearing its riot-act expression, separated himself from a knot of uniformed officers and detectives and stalked over to where Garth and I were standing behind the fluttering yellow tape.

  "It's no wonder the two of you are famous," the detective said in a thick voice. "Lots of people die around you. I'd always heard that about the Fredericksons, but now I'm seeing it for myself."

  I was getting just a tad weary of Malachy McCloskey's increasingly uninspired quips about my brother and me; I started formulating what I thought would be an appropriate response, one that would undoubtedly include unflattering references to the man's ancestors, as well as the suggestion that he perform an unlikely act of sexual self-abuse. Fortunately, Garth spoke before I did.

  "I haven't noticed any of the good guys dying around us lately, McCloskey," Garth said calmly. "And we never met the gentleman hanging on the tree over there. We used to watch him on television; for a piece of shit, he was a great comedian."

  "You're a cold son-of-a-bitch, Frederickson."

  Garth raised his eyebrows slightly. "Am I? If that means that I don't feel a lot of sympathy for that skinny, kid-fucking scumbag over there, I guess you're right. It must be a personality defect. At least somebody put him out of his misery; but the child he abused may have to live with the nightmare memories of what he did to her for the rest of her life. Because of Kenecky, Vicky Brown may never be able to lead a normal life."

  "Maybe you've got a point," McCloskey said, looking down at his feet.

  I asked, "Did you find the genitals, Lieutenant?"

  McCloskey shook his head. "There's no blood from the spike wounds in his palms or feet, and precious little from the hole where his prick and balls used to be. You can't see it from here, but he's got a bullet hole just behind his left ear. It looks like he was executed someplace else, then mutilated after he was dead; the corpse was brought here and put up for public display-all for the benefit of you two, of course. Somebody's trying to assure you that the girl's not going to be harmed anymore."

  "It looks that way, doesn't it?" Garth said in a flat voice.

  McCloskey used the toe of his right shoe to draw a small circle in the snow and leaves on the frozen ground. "It looks like you guys were right about the girl, Kenecky. . and maybe a few other things. I apologize to you if I seemed a little. . insensitive. You know I've got kids of my own. And grandkids. I guess seeing this creep hanging up there brings a lot of things home to me. It makes me think of my own. You know what I'm saying?"

  "Yeah," I said. "Speaking of those other things we may be right about, want to bet that the lab people find traces of Amazon rain forest soil under his fingernails?"

  "You've made me a believer."

  Garth asked, "Any idea of how long he's been dead, McCloskey?"

  "The coroner's people tell me that's going to be hard to pin down until they get him on a cutting table. The low temperature complicates everythin
g. The initial estimate is that he died somewhere between six and fourteen hours ago. There are burns on the flesh that could have been caused as a result of the corpse being packed in dry ice." He paused and laughed grimly, without any trace of humor. "I guess whoever did this wanted him to look fresh for you."

  I grimaced in frustration. "If he's been dead up to fourteen hours, and the corpse was packed in dry ice, he could have been brought here from anywhere in the country."

  McCloskey shrugged. "Or he could have been killed only a few blocks away, and then kept on ice until now, Christmas morning, as a special gesture. Unless forensics finds something very special on or in him, it's going to be almost impossible to tell where he was killed."

  "We come back to the postmark on the letter," Garth said to me. "He had to have been killed somewhere around here, which means that the girl has to be close by. That's why they went to so much trouble to mask the time of death."

  I thought about it, then slowly, reluctantly, shook my head. "I don't think we can assume that anymore. We know now that Kenecky was tied in with a multinational corporation, with operations all over the world. True, the letter was certainly mailed somewhere in the New York region; but now we have to consider the possibility that it was brought here from someplace else. It could have been written anywhere."

  "Shit," Garth said with disgust. "And all we thought we were looking for was a needle in a haystack. In fourteen hours, he could have been brought here from just about anywhere in the world. That's thousands of haystacks."

  "You two sound as if you're still worried about finding the girl," McCloskey said carefully. "If you don't mind my asking, what's the point? I thought you agreed that Kenecky was killed and hung up here to assure you that the girl was going to be all right. And you did say that was all you cared about. They got your message, and they sent back one of their own."

  "And their message is a mutilated corpse," Garth replied evenly. "Before, all we knew was that Vicky Brown was being sexually abused by a lunatic; now we find out that the girl is living with-or under the control of-a whole barrelful of lunatics who think that death doesn't mean a goddamn thing because they're all going to be resurrected and go floating up to the sky in a few days. And one of those lunatics is most definitely murderous." He paused, looked at me. "I don't think that sounds like a very healthy environment for a child. Do you, Mongo?"

  "Absolutely not. And I'm sure the lieutenant agrees."

  "This is police business now," McCloskey said curtly.

  "Finding Kenecky's murderer is police business," I said. "Finding the girl in order to make certain she's all right is our business. I wouldn't be surprised if we met at the end at the same dirt pile."

  "You're probably right about that," McCloskey said distantly. He was looking somewhere over my right shoulder; his face was grim, as if he didn't like what he saw there.

  "The girl is our client."

  "Your client!"

  "Right," I said, and smiled thinly. "We're acting in loco parentis for Santa Claus."

  Garth asked, "Will you let us know if you find out anything more specific about when and where Kenecky was killed?"

  McCloskey frowned. "I don't know if I can do that, Frederickson."

  "I know you can't do it officially, McCloskey. How about unofficially? In return, we'll make sure you hear right away about any relevant information we may dig up."

  "You're legally bound to do that anyway."

  "You're not listening carefully to Garth, Lieutenant," I said. "He told you we'd get the information to you, personally. You wouldn't want anyone else-especially the F.B.I.-horning in on your case, would you?"

  McCloskey looked at me, smiled grimly. "You should negotiate for us with the Russians, Frederickson."

  "Is that a compliment, a yes, or a no?"

  "It's a maybe. Give me a couple of days."

  "How long will it be before the autopsy is performed?"

  "A couple of days."

  "That sounds fair, Lieutenant. Thank you."

  Garth said, "Do you need us anymore, McCloskey?"

  "No."

  "Then we'll be on our way."

  "Hey," McCloskey said as we started to walk away.

  We stopped, turned back. "What is it, Lieutenant?" I asked.

  The surly-looking man with the acne-scarred face jerked his thumb back in the direction of the crucified corpse on the tree behind him. "I've never seen anything like that, and I don't want to again. I'm thinking that the famous Fredericksons should watch their asses."

  I nodded. "You too, Lieutenant. Like Garth says, these guys are crazy; if you get in their way, the fact that you're a cop won't mean shit to them. Now they've shown that they'll kill others, as well as themselves, to keep their secret. If you do get a lead on the location of that dirt pile, I'd take a lot of firepower with me."

  "Yeah? What are you two going to use for firepower?"

  "Ah," I said, smiling. "Garth and I have our stealth and cunning."

  "Merry Christmas, McCloskey," Garth said.

  Malachy McCloskey nodded to both of us. "Merry Christmas to you."

  We went home. Incredibly, Beloved had not been towed; she was still at the curb where I had parked her, beneath the NO PARKING OR STANDING AT ANY TIME sign. I put her in our underground garage, then went to bed. However, despite the fact that I'd been up all night, I found I was too wired to sleep. It was the same with Garth; he called me on the phone and asked, without any trace of irony, if I was sleeping. We got cleaned up, then went out and ate a desultory Christmas brunch at Rick's.

  "Can you think of anything we can do today, brother?" Garth asked as we finished our steak and eggs.

  "No-except to have another bloody Mary or two. We need to get some rest."

  "Agreed," Garth said, and signaled the bartender, raising two fingers.

  "I may as well go back to Jersey City tomorrow and try to check out some more shipping companies. I may not find out anything, but it seems like a forced move; we don't really have any choice but to keep plodding on."

  "They're not going to be open on a Saturday which is the day after Christmas."

  "I'll check out the situation anyway. If there are ships coming in, somebody's going to have to unload them."

  Garth nodded. "There are a number of suppliers I want to check out. I'll start my calls, see if anybody is open. If not, it will just have to wait until Monday."

  "Christ, they'd need hundreds of tons of glass, plastic, steel, whatever, to build a biosphere big enough for people to live in. You'd think somebody would remember orders like that, even if they didn't remember that it was for Nuvironment."

  "They'd remember-unless they've been told not to remember."

  "Or unless all of the supplies have been ordered and delivered through companies owned by Blaisdel."

  "Right. But you're correct about them needing an awful lot of shit, including a few million gallons of sea water. And they'd need a lot of expertise. They've gone outside before, to the Botanical Garden; there may be other outside experts they've used. I think I'm going to check back with Sam Zelaskowich and see if he knows of anyone else, in any other institution, who's done consulting work for Nuvironment."

  "Good idea. But you're going to have to be very careful-for Zelaskowich's sake."

  "I know, Mongo. I will be." He paused, nodded to the bartender as he brought us over our drinks, then continued: "All we need is one lousy lead, the name of one person who won't end up dead on us. There are records somewhere, and there are people who have the information we want."

  "Where are you going to start?"

  "I'm not sure," Garth answered after what seemed an unusually long pause.

  Something about the tone of my brother's voice made me wonder if he was being evasive; but since I could think of no reason why he would be evasive, I let it go. We finished our drinks, Garth grabbed the check, and we headed for the cashier. Outside, the sky was leaden with thick, dark clouds. It was, I thought, going to be a very
long Christmas Day.

  The good news was that I slept; the bad news was that I woke up at two thirty in the morning. I made a large pot of coffee, exercised, then sat for a half hour in my sauna and tried to relax. It was useless; the more I sweated, the more nervous I became. Something was nagging at me-something besides the obvious difficulties and frustrations of the situation we were dealing with. I kept struggling to find the source of my unease as I showered, dressed in a terry-cloth jumpsuit, and went into the kitchen to make myself something to eat.

  I'd just popped two slices of rye bread into the toaster when it came to me.

  Three men associated with Nuvironment had killed themselves rather than divulge information they didn't want Garth and me to have; all three had implied that they, at least, expected something to happen very soon, namely the end of the world. Peter Patton, on the other hand, certainly hadn't seemed to share their sense of urgency; indeed, he'd offered to give Garth and me the run of his place. Next week. After the first of the year.

  Under any circumstances it would be most unlikely that anyone would be at the Nuvironment offices in the middle of the night to answer the phone. In addition, it was a holiday weekend, and Patton had said that the offices were being closed down until after New Year's. Still, acting on an impulse that sprang out of my unshakable sense of foreboding, I picked up the telephone and dialed the number for Nuvironment.

  There was no ringing; instead, a recorded voice came on, courtesy of the New York Telephone Company, to tell me that the number I was trying to reach had been disconnected.

  It left me with a very cold, knotted feeling in the pit of my stomach. I buttered my toast, ate it with my fourth cup of coffee. But I put the eggs I'd been about to cook back into the refrigerator; I wasn't hungry anymore.

  At eight thirty I rolled Beloved out of the garage and noted with decidedly mixed feelings the black limousine parked just down the block. As I headed downtown, the limousine tailed along, about six car lengths behind me. Nuvironment might have closed up shop permanently, but Peter Patton was obviously taking no chances on having any loose cannons messing up his act-whatever that act might be; the tails were still on duty. It was almost comforting to be followed, implying as it did that it still might be possible for us to learn something, and I made no effort to lose the Cadillac.